


venimus. vicimus. amavimus.

by gaynaerys (officialgeorgeglass)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9164317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialgeorgeglass/pseuds/gaynaerys
Summary: the three-headed dragon flies overhead, away from the tattered south and into the splintering north. sansa stark prays for fire and for blood, prays for the return of death. even the hot springs in the walls are beginning to freeze over. she looks at her hands, sees them spattered with blood. the ghastly, bloated face of her mother flashes in her mind; the memory of red on her hands burning like pitch, like wildfire.





	1. one

i.

men kneel at her feet; a kingdom calls her queen. she wants to tell them she has been one for far longer than this, but the iron circlet on her brow weighs too heavy with ghosts and graves. _the iron price_ , she remembers a kraken muttering. she even misses him, sometimes, though she’d never been fond of his crudeness. a stranger wears his face now, tucked away in a skeletal castle, leader of a despondent people. she hopes he doesn’t dream of death as often as she does.

then again, she cannot blame him. she is a ghost wearing the face of an arrogant little girl, and she has faced only half of his tortures.

the three-headed dragon flies overhead, away from the tattered south and into the splintering north. sansa stark prays for fire and for blood, prays for the return of death. even the hot springs in the walls are beginning to freeze over. she looks at her hands, sees them spattered with blood. the ghastly, bloated face of her mother flashes in her mind; the memory of red on her hands burning like pitch, like wildfire.

she who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

_do you think the same now, father? would you be proud that i killed her? she was already dead - catelyn stark was long gone. but i wonder whether you would have seen that. whether robb would have._

she doesn’t realise she’s begun to shake until rickon’s beside her, hand encircling her elbow. he’s bigger than either of his brothers were allowed to become, bigger even than she remembers jon to be. she even prays that he might be living still at the wall, trapped between the death of one war and the undead of another. she sinks against his sixteen year frame, faltering and fading for only a few moments. she is so, so tired. and there is little more than exhaustion yet to come.

“it’s alright, sansa,” he promises, “the wars will all be over soon. it’s okay. it’s okay to be alive. i feel it, too. all of them. mother, father, robb, bran… they’re all here, in their own way. the old gods keep them with us, tucked away, in our hearts. the wildlings know things we don’t, things we’ve forgotten; the skagosi too.” she wants to cry, knows he does, too. one day they will, when the alcoves in the crypts stop filling, when she no longer needs to ensure there are troops fed, watered, and waiting for an army that is already dead. when she stops lying awake among her furs, plagued with fear that her brother will never return from that great chunk of ice at the edge of the world. when she stops fearing that the war for the dawn will only be followed by civil wars, each kingdom fighting for itself, until there is nothing left in westeros but skulls and charred earth. they would all die one day. sansa had made her peace with that fact long ago. but they did not need to kill each other to reach that day early.

 

_what is dead may never die._

 

gods, she wishes that weren’t true.

 

ii.

weeks pass without any news other than distant rumblings and roars. the screeching of the mid-toned dragon disappears on the same day as sansa dreams she’s a wolf; dreams she’s stalking around winterfell, chasing the fleeting smell of winter roses. she wakes to the feel of a ghost-knife in her hands, remembers the imaginary knife plunged into baelish’s neck. her chest loosens at the memory, and she sneaks to the pool by the heart tree to wash the sweat from her body.

 _forgive me_ , she prays to the old gods, though it is her family she hopes can hear her. _not for him, no. for the things that led me to him. for choosing his way. for changing everything. even now._

she thinks the tree whispers back to her; she sees the red eyes dripping their bloody tears down their trunk - it has been thousands of years since the tree was carved, but it bleeds for her. the north bleeds and bleeds and bleeds; it is her fault. the leaves shush her, it is not her fault. they have bran’s voice, little brandon stark’s voice, lost to the rivers or the snows or the wolves or-

that is how she knows she is imagining the gods can hear her.

 

he is gone, just like the rest of them. it is her, her and rickon, only them and shaggydog. she misses lady like jamie lannister surely misses his hand, like willas tyrell must miss his legs. she aches, there are more holes in her heart than just the wolf, more holes than even just her family. the thought makes her ill to her stomach - it was one such loss that held her back. it stopped her running, running home, saving her mother, her brothers, the north…

“seven hells,” sansa whispers into the waters. she should never have pretended she was allowed to be happy. she presses her forehead into the icy ground that rings the pool, hears a tear drip against the steam-blanketed water. “i am so sorry.”

“oh, no, my lady,” a voice smirks, swirls through her head like soft brown curls and the smell of summer fruits, “it is i who should be sorry. i was told you would be praying, not… disrobed.” she wills her mind to quiet, to stop reminding her of the things she wanted so desperately, the ones that flitted away from between her fingers, a flame one second, smoke the next morn, a teasing ghost months later. she was a dream - one that would never be realised. she was peace or happiness or winter’s sweet end.

and when sansa finally succumbs to the feeling of eyes burning into her back and raises her head away from the frosted dirt, she stands right there, under the heart tree.

margaery tyrell, the sweetest rose highgarden has ever known.

 

“seven _fucking_ hells,” sansa sputters, decorum utterly lost.

 

“my lady,” she greets, her smile strained, her eyes sad. even so, her curls bounce merrily as her body dips; they betray the nightmare of the situation. a grey hood hangs around her shoulder, flows down into a cloak that is almost black, lined with the fur of what sansa imagines must be a bear. it is the most muted the tyrell girl has ever dressed, she imagines. she is more radiant than ever, more stunning, the most beautiful woman sansa has ever known. it tears open the holes in her heart again, and sansa is glad she is in the water, for she is bound to have shed tears by now.

“lady margaery.” she has become iron and ice; has subjugated theon and his saltmen to her rule again, has starved and frozen and loved and lost and she _lives_ still, and so do her people. let margaery feel that in her voice. “it is _your grace_ , now. or perhaps you would prefer _my queen_ .” gone are the days of sweetwine and gossip, gone are her illusions of chivalry and a peaceful southron life. she has not wanted that in years. (but oh, she _has_ wanted margaery).

“i thought it best to see you in private, before i appear before your court. i apologise for the lack of warning. these are dangerous times to be sending ravens.”

“no, they aren’t.”

the rose stares at her for so long sansa thinks she might bite, might fight back. she wants to hurt her half as much as she is hurting inside, but she knows it is futile. margaery tyrell has no heart; she knows no pain.

  
“i am sorry again, for intruding on your prayers, your grace. i will see you on the morrow. our people will have much to discuss. we come bearing gifts. i hope that the north forgives us for arriving so late to this war.”

“good-bye, lady tyrell.” sansa scathes, turning away. the water _slooshes_ around her body as she forces her way through it. her damp hair whips through the air. margaery melts back into the shadows. the stark girl directs her anger towards the trees, the thin branches at the top, bare of their summer green. “any explanation for that one?” she all but yells, “no? because it’s _inexplicable?_ brilliant!” she huffs, crawling from the pool and snatching her coats around herself. “as if i didn’t already have two armies to worry about feeding and clothing. **_gods!_ ** ” somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers bran’s laugh. _shut up, you_ , she thinks as hard as she can. his memory only laughs louder.


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the door swings open in a flurry of sunlight and snowflakes, and in sweep a pair far more radiant than the painful light of the winter outdoors. margaery’s fingers curl expertly around the elbow of her brother; they are too beautiful to be of this world, delicate as myrish lace. the tyrell siblings are as terrible and great a pair as have ever been seen in the halls of winterfell.
> 
> it is a good thing sansa fast became the most politically formidable leader winterfell has ever seen.

iii.

 

provided she is in winterfell itself, sansa eats all her meals in the barely repaired great hall. to her right sits rickon, to her left, brienne. everyone in the castle eats the same meal. sansa will not eat in comfort, in pleasure, while her people starve and freeze. the dais that sits her above the masses is both a blessing and a curse.  she will not make stannis’ mistakes. she will not play goddess. her people need to see her, and she them. jon had done the same, they told her, had followed ned’s every example. but he was always too distant, too brooding. he’d never been a politician. so they murdered him all the same.

he rose again, though. he rides a dragon now. there are whispers he isn’t her brother after all, but rhaegar’s seed, her aunt’s dying secret. but he is; targaryen or not, bastard or not. the few ravens she’d managed to exchange with him before the war began were enough to seal that, no matter how rotten she’d been.

all this was her fault, anyways. jon was just another part of her awful childhood self; the porcelain doll who’d ruined everything for a crown, before she realised she would never have power over _anyone_ in the south.

(the southerners weren’t men nor women, however. she’d grown up enough to learn that, at least.)

 

she wonders if arya would have forgiven her as jon did.

 

her porridge is no more than halfway finished when a page, no more than thirteen years of age, bursts breathless through the doors. “your grace!” he half pants, half shouts. “a party from the reach!” bodies scatter as he hurries to the bottom of the dais and bows deep. sansa pretends not to notice rickon using the distraction to swallow the entire horn of ale aside her bowl. she hadn’t planned on drinking it, anyways; she had no taste for it. nettle tea was enough for her. “they came out of nowhere - out of the snows. they approach now - an army with them.”

brienne stirs, steel clanking noisily as she half-rises from her seat. “i shall mobilise our defenses, my queen.” sansa laughs quietly, and raises a hand.

“that shall not be necessary. calm yourself. what is your name, boy?” sansa questions the page.

“ben, your grace.” he bows. sansa smiles at him, until brienne nudges her.

“but- “ she lowers her voice. “sansa, an _army_.”

“they come in peace.” clips the redhead. her voice drops to a whisper, and her eyes glint steely as she reprimands the woman. “i expect that you use my title as is _proper_ in these situations, brienne. i assure you, all is well.” sansa lifts her chin and addresses the boy, his face red, his knees shaking with nerves. “clear the centre of the hall, ten men wide. i shall receive them here. i have porridge yet to be eaten.” she looks over her people, in their greys and blacks, pale skin blue from cold. “any man or woman who wishes to stay, to finish their meal and hear what the south has to say, may remain.” sansa turns then to her brother and wishes _she_ had been the one to down the ale. the squeaking of wood along stone deafens all around them. “rickon, my cloak. the grey one, with the wolf sigil. and my crown.” he nods, scampers to get them. “and carry your axe!” she shouts at his back, glad she’d had the foresight to have her handmaidens pull her hair back into a simple braid the moment she’d woken.

a terrible silence settles over the hall once the tables have disappeared, tipped onto their sides in the hall’s newly built corners. the queen grows tired of her rigid posture before rickon even returns with her crown. it is a beautiful thing, the crown: a simple band of black iron, inlaid with electrum runes. smiths from the neck to the wall had begged her for something more traditional, something spiked, like robb’s. she told them that had been the crown of two fallen kingdoms; she told them that was the crown of a king, and she was to be a queen. winterfell’s first, and the greatest leader for many eons past. that had angered the men, but they would not forget who she was. sansa stark, the she-wolf forged in steel; she had plunged iron into the undead body of her own mother and risen among deadly ice. they said no more, and presented her with the crown less than a moon later. she still suspects, however, that they had made it heavier than it needed to be.

 

still, it suited her that way. she could not forget she was wearing it.

sansa stark, queen in the north, the she-wolf of winterfell, would not forget her station.

 

the door swings open in a flurry of sunlight and snowflakes, and in sweep a pair far more radiant than the painful light of the winter outdoors. margaery’s fingers curl expertly around the elbow of her brother; they are too beautiful to be of this world, delicate as myrish lace. the tyrell siblings are as terrible and great a pair as have ever been seen in the halls of winterfell.

it is a good thing sansa fast became the most politically formidable leader winterfell has ever seen.

she’s not sure when it was that rickon returned and set the crown on her brow, but it is there that it now rests. the shadow of her brother’s great axe falls half across her face. sansa decides she likes it that way. her cloak is tucked perfectly around her shoulders, direwolf sigil burning menace down at the beauties of the reach. when he drops to one knee aside his sister, the pretty, valiant, imperturbable loras tyrell looks positively rattled. the clinks of his chainmail fade into nothing. margaery rises.

“your grace,” she calls, voice echoing - it is not only sansa she is greeting, but all the north. “my brother and i have come in haste from highgarden the moment we could. the quarrels have not stopped since the moment the dragon queen left; with house lannister demolished, the skirmish for power was a tense one. it took our lord father with it, but left us with the full force of the reach and many houses of the storm.” she smiles vaguely. “they are at your disposal, though my brother did bid they begin the march further northwards.”

“i am certain lord commander snow will have better use of your troops at the wall than i here. we thank you for your dedication to the common good, and i am sure queen daenerys and my half-brother will be of the same gratitude.”

loras rises. “we come also as beggars, my queen.” _so, she passed the etiquette on_ , sansa thinks, spooning porridge into her mouth. she watches margaery stifle a laugh at her small power play. loras stutters over his words, staring only at the northern queen, lost. “we ask that a small party be put up in your castle for the duration of this war of ice and fire, as ambassadors for the south.”

sansa swallows. “and what do the dornish say to that?” she wonders, head tilting.

“they have retreated in on themselves. not a single dornishman has been seen this side of the prince’s pass since the sack of king’s landing. we speak for the westerlands, the stormlands, and the reach, your grace. that is what remains of the south. we bear gifts, in return for safe housing. there is food aplenty in our lands, as you know. we have carried much and more on this journey.”

margaery steps forwards until she is at the foot of the dais.“this winter has been tough enough in the south, your grace.” she speaks more quietly now, though every ear in the hall strains to listen. even in the time we have spent travelling it is clear that the harshness of the north has no match. we are here in the hopes of easing that strain, however much it may take. we have men and women willing to help in your rebuilds, and gold to ease the expenses. we are late to the battle, but we are here now.”

 

sansa’s bowl rattles as she sets it down and gestures for rickon to join her in stepping down from their podium. shaggydog pads his way over, pelt dark in the candlelight. she moves towards loras first; another power play, though this one is entirely unpolitical. “my brother and i open the home of our ancestors to any who seek refuge from the long night.” she clasps loras’ forearm, nods, smiles despite the bewilderment on his face, and sweeps towards the other tyrell - the more beautiful one, in her mind. behind her, rickon copies her movements seamlessly. “the gifts of food and manpower shan’t be forgotten.” she holds her arm out to her ex-companion, determined impassion in her jaw. margaery clasps it and inches closer.

“there is more to discuss, sansa, and another gift. it is the most valuable, the most deadly, but i wish that you will steady yourself in preparation.”

the queen in the north whips her head away, and waves for the page. rickon slips between her and highgarden’s daughter, his wolf sniffing around margaery’s feet. “ben!” she shouts, forcing the promises of margaery tyrell to the back of her mind. “bread and salt for our guests and their party, if you will. guest rite must be observed.”  
margaery smirks, beside her, loras smiles. but sansa cannot shed her steel. “rickon will remain to share in the breaking of your fast, lord loras, lady margaery. brienne - with me. the north awaits our guidance.” and with that, sansa sweeps back into the belly of winterfell, heart thumping madly against her ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i forgot about this aha!


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the council decides unanimously to send two-thirds of their remaining archers to bear island, along with adequate supplies of tar to set almost a thousand undead alight. sansa feels sick to her stomach at the thought of death, the thought of killing. she lets the military men, brienne, and the ladies of house mormont work out the true logistics of war while her mind wanders anywhere but the gaze she can feel burning into her. loras is a great help in this council, his sister a great distraction.

organising builders and rations and their feeble remaining troops can only take so many hours of sansa’s day. still, she busies herself with organisations that baffle her and do not truly need her supervision; in the daylight those do not fill, she goes to the godswood and prays. margaery tyrell does not impede upon her privacy again. when the sun sets - earlier and earlier with each day that passes by - she dines with rickon, brienne, and those of her bannermen and women who are not fighting for westeros’ survival. dinners are sombre affairs, though there is laughter sometimes still. even harder to bear are the war councils. they’re rare; sansa only allows them to be held when ravens arrive with news from the crumbling wall. she manages two weeks after the tyrells’ arrival before a letter sealed with a blacker-than-tar ink. she feels rather than sees the crow embellished in it as she runs her thumb over the seal. her spine crawls with dread.

jon’s terrible handwriting is recognisable immediately; sansa’s spine relaxes, her lungs caving inwards with a whoosh. the few faces that dot her periphery pretend not to notice. she blinks and her eyes flight to the out of place brightness of margaery tyrell’s gown. it’s the dark green of a forest after a spring rain, but it seems as bright as the light-tower that stands high above oldtown when compared to the shadows of the candlelit room at midnight and the thick black cloaks of the northern nobles.

sansa’s eyes float up over margaery’s faded tan and wonder if the tower seems so magnificently white still, or if it is dulled by layers of snow and sleet. she watches margaery watching her; she pretends not to see the glaze of worried tears in her gemstone-green eyes, pretends not to see margaery’s relief, pretends not to notice margaery pretending to be indifferent.

“lord commander snow reports that all three dragons still live. rhaegal was incapacitated for two weeks on the day this letter was written, so we must assume they have fallen back behind the frostfangs on the right flank.” she shudders. there must have been many lives lost without the dragonfire to wreak havoc on the front lines. rickon pushes jon’s piece backwards on the map. perhaps the soldiers under her half-brother’s command are still dying by the hundred, or perhaps danaerys has drifted towards him to cover. she couldn’t know. the lion - her ex-husband, tyrion - drops backwards also on the left. it’s the smart move, the one he’d have suggested. queen daenerys’ dragon pushes forwards, to the edge of the frostfangs. defense is not an option.

 

the council decides unanimously to send two-thirds of their remaining archers to bear island, along with adequate supplies of tar to set almost a thousand undead alight. sansa feels sick to her stomach at the thought of death, the thought of killing. she lets the military men, brienne, and the ladies of house mormont work out the true logistics of war while her mind wanders anywhere but the gaze she can feel burning into her. loras is a great help in this council, his sister a great distraction.

upon the table, sansa’s hands have balled into fists, her knuckles white as the moon. she rises and clears her throat. when the air begins to clog with the sound of scraping chairs, she waves a hand.

“no need to rise, my lords and ladies. i grow tired, and this is no area of my own expertise. lord umber, the command here is yours.” the greatjon nods at her. “rickon will remain and will inform me of any further decisions when i wake. thank you all for your counsel, and good luck.”

 

she makes it just far enough to think she has escaped the inevitable for one more night when margaery calls out.

 

“your grace,” sansa slows and curses herself. “ _ your grace. _ ” it’s a demand, the second time. a demand from the woman she’s never been able to refuse.

“yes, my lady?” she asks without stopping. let the rose of highgarden play catch-up, for once. “as i said, i grow tired-”

“forgive me, sansa, but i know as well as you that you’re in too much of a state to sleep well now.”

the queen in the north bristles.

“careful, lady margaery. things are not so simple as in king’s landing.”

“no, they aren’t.” she’s drawn even with sansa now. “but not for the reasons you think. those remain quite uncomplicated. if you would walk with me now, i could clear up the complications you remain unaware of, however.”

sansa raises her chin and stares forwards, jaw clenched. “i do not think that would be appropriate, my lady.”

“oh, for the sake of the  _ gods _ , sansa, call me by my bloody name and not my title.” a hand circles around sansa’s elbow and yanks her to a halt. black and bloody anger boils in her heart. “and that’s not what i was suggesting, anyhow. do you truly think so low of me?”

“you used me, margaery. you and your grandmother both. i was a pawn, a piece, nothing more than someone to chew up and spit out when the lannisters soured my taste a little too much.”  _ you ruined me. i learned everything from you, but the best lessons were the ones learned in pain. you broke me in an entirely different way than all the others. _ “you wanted the north and you lost it and so i became nothing. of course i think so low of you.” it is not the truth.

for once, highgarden’s crowning glory looked floored. the empty halls feel full of ghosts and the smell of rotten fruit. “i can’t say anything but that i never intended that.” margaery steps closer and whispers, “i’m sorry, sansa.”

 

it’s not enough. it will never be enough. pain flashes hot and red through sansa, then white numbness, then something she will not acknowledge. it feels green and growing and not at all like winter.

it is not enough, but she is no longer that girl. she nods.

“if you would take to the courtyard with me, your grace,” margaery tries again, “i think you may find something that belongs here with us.” eerily, sansa does not feel compelled to tell the southern lady she does not belong in the north. margaery’s charm is seamless no matter the world she inhabits, sansa supposes. it is dangerous.

 

margaery leads her into a swirling wind filled with snowflakes.

 

sansa is dimly aware of brienne twenty paces behind them. she’s acutely aware of margaery’s fingertips drifting away from her elbow, down her fur-clad forearm, over the bare skin of her hand. she shivers though she still feels the warmth of a crackling fire. against the stair-rails leans a woman. her frame is wiry, lean, androgynous, but sansa can feel that she is no man. margaery stops. sansa turns to her, an expectant look upon her face.

“i promised you a gift, when i first arrived. a dangerous one.”

“what is this, lady margaery?” sansa demands. “i do not wish to catch a cold for some folly.”

“sansa, please. this might amuse me were it not so important.” she breathes inwards, nerves written on her usually impassive face. the woman at the rail turns, and sansa recognises her. not her face, but her. her eyes, her look - her heart, sansa thinks in her delirium. “i present to you lady arya stark of winterfell.”

sansa guffaws.

“do not play games. my sister was not blonde, margaery. she had grey eyes, not brown. arya stark is a dead woman, and i would ask you only to respect that. do not make a jest like that again. now, who is this, truly?”

the woman steps forwards and raised a gloved hand. sansa’s own shoots to her waist, unsheathing a knife quicker than lightning. up the stairs pads a beastly wolf - nay, a direwolf. the hand passes over blonde hair, and those  _ familiar _ chestnut eyes, and leaves behind it brown strands and the icy grey eyes of their father. sansa’s knees buckle.

margaery and arya catch either of her arms before she can hit the snow. sansa’s head swims with confusion and with memory. she could swear she hears bran’s voice then, too.

 

_ calm, sansa.  **breathe** \- that’s it, in and out. you can trust them. arya is in danger, she needs you - and you her. it will all make sense in time. breathe. _

 

she reaches out and touches her sister’s face, guilt and regret trembling in her fingertips. “arya,” she whispers, and realises there are tears freezing on her face. “seven hells, you’ve grown up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, huh?


	4. four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and still, the river within her roars endlessly, painfully, her stomach flipping and churning. it’s not just anger, nor betrayal, nor the fondness she once felt for the other woman. it’s all of them, all together, all at once.

snow is swirling outside when the first of the elderly rise at breakfast, spears in hand. they announce they are going hunting. sansa’s heart clenches, but she knows better than to try to stop them. rickon doesn’t flinch, either. arya starts to leap from her seat, but sansa and brienne reach out to hold her down at once. she sees her heartbreak written in the faces of the mothers and grandmothers throughout the hall. the young men stare down at their meals, the children merely look confused. one begins to wail as his grandfather stands and makes his way towards the door. sansa nods at the group of four as they leave. they’ll never return. they are the first, but they won’t be the last to disappear in such a way.

winters never stopped their thievery.

arya tenses, then relaxes. sansa draws back her hand in relief, her eyes prickling and burning. arya has always been all heart. the years have not changed that, even if they have made her distant and inaccessible. sansa’s much the same, she figures. arya may not have been through what sansa has, but she’s certainly seen her fair share of horrors. the hard lines of her body both make sansa wonder what she has seen, and pray she will never know the full truth. 

subtly as she can, sansa shoots a glance down the table to their southron guests. loras stares at the door as it thuds shut, echoing its oaken mourning towards them. the horror on his face is palpable. _ he does not take well to the cold _ , sansa thinks to herself. his face is the only bare skin he shows, between his curls and the thick, grey furs of the cloak he’d acquired not long after taking up residence. they’re a far cry from the billowing silks she had once known him to wear. the determination in his shoulders draws a surge of respect from her. he doesn’t need to be there, and yet he is.

next to him sat margaery. the strange way her stomach tightens and flips at the sight of lady tyrell in stark colours - one of sansa’s own furs, from before she’d grown so tall - is not something she needs to think about right then. but she does think about it, her palms uncomfortably sweaty even pressed flat against the hardwood table of her dais. and still, the river within her roars endlessly, painfully, her stomach flipping and churning. it’s not just anger, nor betrayal, nor the fondness she once felt for the other woman. it’s all of them, all together, all at once.  

and then margaery meets sansa’s gaze with a questioning look. her body burns, like wildfire on the blackwater, like the hearth in her parents’ bedroom. sansa stares at the brown of her eyes, the ones the men claim to be doe-like but are so much more beautiful, so much less innocent, so much softer, so much more calculating. sansa stares right back, eyes blank. there are still half-formed tears glazing them.

 

margaery is the one who leaves this time.

 

* * *

 

the last three starks stand on the balcony and stare out at the endless horizon of white. it looks soft, from up there, like pillows, and clouds. nothing like the killer it is, and nothing like the killers it hides. rickon leans on his axe, the scar from his eye to his jaw visible now he’s begun to tie his hair back like father; arya stands straight as an arrow - it’s not the poise that catelyn spent her life trying to convince the young girl to embody, but something else, something far more lethal - and thumbs the hilt of her sword. sansa thinks of the knife in her room, bundled up in cloth. something rises in her throat. there’s a fleeting moment where she thinks her meal may resurface, but then it passes.

they’ve all killed, she realises. it was never meant to be this way.

“i went to essos.” arya starts. “well, i went there eventually. I was there, at the sept of baelor, when they took father’s head.” the information feels like a punch in the stomach. sansa’s throat seizes. “i saw you,” arya’s head turns to her, eyes cutting right through her being. she is terrified of what might come next. “i think, somewhere… part of me hated you. that’s true. but more of me just wanted to scream out, for them to catch me, just so i could be up there. it was the first time i felt like i had to protect you - to protect  _ us _ .” a tear freezes in sansa’s eyelashes. “but yoren found me, and cut my hair, and told me he was going to take me home.” she sounds guilty. sansa wants nothing more than to tell her she isn’t, that when she’d told the lannisters about father’s plan to leave she’d made her own bed. sansa was the only one who’d deserved to lie in it.

“we never made it. i met one of king robert’s bastards on the road, though. and i ended up kidnapped by the hound. well, sort of. not really, at the end. he tried to take me to riverrun, but we ended up just outside the twins when robb and mother were killed.”

 

sansa’s head whirls, and she wonders if arya knows what she did to mother. if the undead, grotesque stoneheart could be called catelyn stark, that is.

 

“but after that, after clegane died, i went to essos. braavos, actually. i never went anywhere else, except maybe home.” arya’s breath grows shaky then, and her hands reach for the wall in front of her. her body hunches inwards, but only barely. someone else might not have noticed the lantern going out behind arya’s eyes, might not have noticed the fear, the anxiety that took over her body. but sansa knew two things more than anything else in life: terror, and her family. she did not move to comfort arya. the sister she knew would not have wanted it. the killer arya had so clearly become would not have allowed it. she waited. “but the girl that went to braavos is dead. i was no one. it does not matter what i did, what i endured. you only need to know that i was with the faceless men, and when they sent me back to westeros, it was with a terrible mission.” she turned back around, normal again. 

“i did not complete that mission, and i never will. that’s… that’s how marg- how the tyrells found me. they may kill me for it, or they may not. but the iron bank has been destroyed, and so i doubt they even still exist.” arya sighed. her shoulders looked like they carried a little less weight than they had a few moments before. “i just… thought you should know that.” and sansa can feel how much more she wishes she could tell but can’t. there’s so much more to her story, so much richness and fear and adventure.

sansa knows all this. rickon details his escape from winterfell, bran’s abandonment, his time on skagos, his return, the battles he’s fought in. all the way through, sansa thinks of nothing but how exactly margaery might have turned arya back from an assassin into a stark.

 

anger boils in her stomach with every debt she finds herself owing that woman.

it’s unfair.

 

with the wind howling as hard and as loud as the storm in sansa’s mind, in her body, in her soul, she figures it will not do to speak fancifully and avoid the painful part.

“i killed some evil thing living in the body of our mother.” arya blinks, her face contorts, but she stays frozen. sansa doesn’t let her ask questions, but launches into her tale: the terrors of living under joffrey and cersei; her false marriage to tyrion; joffrey’s wedding; her escape to the eyri;  littlefinger; her almost-marriage to harry the heir; saving sweetrobin; watching petyr fly down to earth from the moon door while her hands trembled and her lip bled; brienne’s arrival and their flight from the eyrie, sansa’s hair washed and red as flames.

and then how she arrived at winterfell with an army at her back, ready to save jon’s suicide mission. and then, terribly, going with brienne to disband the corrupted, ruthless brotherhood. she doesn’t tell how she was sick when she saw lady stoneheart’s face, nor when she saw how that undead thing dispatched men with impunity. she told how the thing rushed towards her, that sansa was terrified, that she thought her own mother would be the thing to finally end her life.

she does not detail how plunging a knife into the chest that had been catelyn stark’s did not kill the monster. she whispers that the body was decapitated. she does not tell that brienne did it. most of all, she does not tell of the slash in the thing’s throat, or how the flesh was turgid and near-rotting.

arya stares at her for a few long moments. sansa worries she might die there, that day.

and then her sister’s face breaks, and she strides forward. it’s bewildering, to have arya’s arms around her chest, and to hear the sounds of her crying right there. “i’m sorry, sansa. i’m so, so sorry.”

sansa can only repeat what her sister said, and to hold her upright in turn. her eyes close, and she realises for the first time that they are a family again; a pack. they will have each other until death. rickon, for all his youth, too. and his arms find their way around them, too.

she hopes they will never have to leave winterfell again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayooo i know im the worst at updating but uni is a bitch anyways love and kisses x0x0


	5. five.

it’s only days later, of course, that sansa’s patience is tested. as are her hopes. arya wants to go to the wall. of course arya wants to go to the wall. she wants jon, that’s the truth of it, sansa knows. she’s never had that sibling bond, that closeness, the feeling she could tell all and share all and feel all with someone of her blood, and the feeling that they would do the same. the intimacy of just the idea of it thrills and terrifies her. growing up, she always thought the wild stark and her bastard brother shared their thoughts, their minds connected.

sansa cannot imagine being that close with her siblings. what would they think of the darkness that so often these days creeps in? the thoughts of killing, of leaving some to die, the crushing, crushing guilt of ruling winterfell in the cruellest winter ever known.

(arya and rickon have their own darknesses, she knows this. she doesn’t want to think about it, though.)

lady stoneheart, a voice whispers to her, it was not catelyn, it was stoneheart.

 

when she’s told no one is to leave winterfell during the snowfalls, arya glares at sansa, a hint of murder hiding behind her eyes. she will be kept under lock and key, if she must. the last time the starks split up, four died. and that wasn’t even including lady, nor grey wind, nor summer. arya stalks to her chambers, sharp as a dagger, swift as the winds whipping the stone walls bare of snow. she’s elegant, too. sansa never thought she’d have thought that about her sister, but there’s no other way to put it. it’s not the elegance sansa was taught, that of a frail doll or a bright and delicate flower blooming. breakable.

sansa hides her deadliness as though it is something shameful. 

arya wears it on her sleeve and in the sword at her hip and in her sharp jutting elbows and lithe strides, in the look on her face and the pink of her scars.

sansa retires to her quarters without attending to her business. it’s the first night she’s done so since jon left. she’s simply exhausted; her mind feels as though it has turned to soup, her body aching even though she’s done naught but sit and drift and listen all day. the menial has become worse than the outrageous, more horrific than horrors. she’s too tired to be angry when there’s a knock at her door, even when her gaze tears away from the hypnotism of the flames in her fireplace, only to land upon margaery tyrell. she does not bother to rise, instead blinking, exhaustion burning behind her eyes.

 

“yes?” she asks. it is unlike her to ignore courtesies altogether, but right now she feels utterly unlike herself. margaery drifts into the room. sansa cannot summon hostility, not now.

“you left in such a hurry, i did not get a chance to speak with you.”

“was there something you required? is winterfell not up to your standards, margaery? a problem with your chambers, perhaps?”

margaery is beyond frustration at this point. sansa can feel the resignation pouring off her body as she is met with the stark girl’s frosty hospitality yet again. “no, sansa. for me, it is perfect. i wanted to speak about loras.”

“your brother has a problem, then?”

“ _ no _ ,” margaery repeats, and again, sansa is astonished by her lack of exasperation. she is determined, yet perfectly calm. “he wishes to go to the wall, and i fear there is even less stopping him than there is your sister.” she confesses, and sansa realises that margaery has taken the only empty seat by the fire, directly across from herself.

“my word was final. no one is to leave. he’ll perish in weather like this.”

“my brother sees it as his duty to serve the realm. after renly died… well, i do not think he wishes to do much more than battle whoever - or whatever - he can. i fear he may harm your men at the gates if they do not let him pass, sansa.” margaery takes a deep and loud breath. “and i know the snows are not so bad as to hold him back, you wished to keep your sister here. i understand that. i would not let her go, were i you. but loras came here as a favour to me, and it is time i set him free.”

they both know what margaery means by that. sansa longs for the days where she would not have, for the days where those words would not be followed by the grim knowledge that they both carry a burden of blood guilt.

“there is another way out.” she murmurs, “fetch me my writing tools? there is a desk, in the corner.” margaery is prompt in following her orders. she scribbles out a note to jon.

_ arya is alive and here at winterfell. i wish i could send her to you, brother, i truly do. but i am selfish. i would not let her go without rickon nor myself, and i cannot help thinking what happened the last time we left winterfell. she will be more than pleased to see you when all this is done, i do think. _

sansa signs and seals it, then calls for one of her guards. “bring me rickon and ser loras, immediately.”

 

the two men arrive at her door within minutes. she barely pays attention to the other woman in the room as she explains what is to happen. when she is finished, however, and rickon moves aside to let the siblings say their goodbyes, a deep guilt takes her over. she does not want to feel for margaery. she wishes she could be as stony as she puts on when she speaks to the woman. 

but  _ gods _ , does sansa feel.

she stands with her brother, knowing perfectly well she will wake in the morning to the knowledge that rickon is alive and safe and within her grasp. arya, too. but margaery will no longer have that privilege. sansa thinks of jon, and thinks of the years she spent isolated in king’s landing. she has suffered many physical pains, but none could compare to the loneliness and the spear that the tales of the red wedding drove into her heart. she swallows.

margaery pushes loras’ hair back off his face and ties it back for him. she presses a kiss to the center of his forehead, and he pulls her into a hug. his body, though lithe and lean, envelops hers. sansa cannot hear whatever it is they whisper to each other in that last long moment, and she does not dare imagine. seeing the pain and the love of it is enough. she does not wish to have its ghost nest within her heart.

“good luck, ser loras.” sansa tells him when it is all sad and done and margaery hovers somewhere behind her. “i am told the horses in the stable should be healthy, well fed, and live. you are more than welcome to take the white stallion. his name is snowfire. rickon will fetch you supplies enough to last.”

 

sansa watches the pair leave then sweeps back to face her chambers, hands already flying to undo her bodice. then she remembers her other guest. margaery sits again by the fire, the flames glistening in the dampness of her eyes.

 

“i wanted to explain how it was your sister ended up with us.”

 

“it is late, margaery. tonight has been trying on us all. it can wait.”

“i do not want it to wait.”

sansa’s hands fall away from the ties of her dress, and she nods, turns her back. there’s a jug of wine in the corner - dornish red, the finest money could buy. as if the beauty of its could put some beauty back into their hearts; some summer back into their souls. sansa pours two goblets, and remembers the days she started drinking wine unwatered. how naive she had been, to think that those would be the worst days of her life. how foolish, to have believed that margaery loved her, cared for her, would have put anything on the line for her.

“here,” she hands a goblet to margaery, and takes her place in a seat by the hearth. margaery follows suit, and sips from the drink without question. after so many years fearing poisoning, seeing death in everyone’s eyes, on their lips, tucked at their hips or in their sleeves, smelling blood in every cup, sansa is surprised. there’s trust in that she doubts she’ll ever again be able to give. for a moment, she’s touched.

but then again, isn’t margaery atoning? isn’t she smart enough, cunning enough to play sansa with that?

 

“she landed in oldtown, on a merchant’s ship from pentos. one of the last, if my spies are to be believed.” it’s strange to hear margaery’s voice free from embellishments and euphemisms. “I’m not sure why. it seems smart to arrive as far from king’s landing as possible. it saved her from lannister eyes, or worse, i suppose. the dornish might have been a problem, but they wouldn’t have had a clue that she was a danger. one of my men - one of my grandmother’s men, really, given how long he’s served us - spotted her. the spitting image of your aunt, he insisted. he tailed her. when she passed through highgarden, i watched her. you two are quite alike, you know, sansa. in a funny way. even more so nowadays. you’re both… formidable, and yet, one can’t help but be drawn in.

“she left highgarden with a new face. that was when i knew what she was. i could see it was serious business on her hands. i remembered what you told me, all those years ago, about her hatred for cersei. i assumed she’d come to assassinate her, and i planned to intercept her on her way out. but something was off. and then your sister - a blonde man with a beard, at that point - went straight through king’s landing.” sansa blinks. she’s not sure what margaery  _ means _ . “her real target was still at dragonstone. daenerys targaryen.”

“you mean to tell me you knew my sister was in westeros since before the war started?”

“yes. but it’s more complicated than that. see, she wasn’t arya when i cornered her at duskendale. she was a faceless man. she’d left arya stark behind. she walked like her, yes, and ate like her, and seemed like her, but she wasn’t your sister. i’m not sure  _ what _ changed her mind about killing the dragon queen, but she didn’t do it. i sought her out every day. some days i found her, some i didn’t. it went on for near a month, where i tried to get her back to being arya. the last day i saw her, she wore her own face again. she told me the wolf had woken again. i don’t think it was me that brought her back. she thinks it was her wolf. the dragons reminded her of who she’d wanted to be, and why she’d named the wolf nymeria. i asked her if she was going to do it, and she said she didn’t know. i think she knew.”

sansa swallows down the lump in her throat. indebted to margaery tyrell was something she did not want to be.

“i returned to highgarden. house frey was decimated only weeks later, then cersei wound up strangled. and then, your sister came. she asked that i didn’t contact you or jon snow, not until she was ready.”

sansa drains her goblet. “and now she is.” her voice rasps, eyes staring deep into the embers in the fireplace as they die and blacken. she will freeze in her sleep if she does not attend to it - or does not have someone fuel it for her. “i don’t know what to say, margaery.” she sighs. “no thanks will ever be sufficient. you saved her. you may have saved the realm, even.”

 

“i didn’t do it for them.” sansa knows it’s true. she knows who margaery did it for. she turns to face her.

 

“you still did it, whether it was your intention or not.”

margaery stares at sansa. sansa stares right back. silence hangs between them, with memory and apology and that  _ thing _ that sansa does not want to think about as her companions.

“it’s late,” says margaery once it is so tense sansa thinks her mind might explode. she spins her empty goblet between her fingers.”

“there’s more wine, if you’d like to stay for another drink.”

margaery smiles. her head shakes. “i think we both ought to get some sleep, my lady. you have many responsibilities awaiting you in the morning.” she rises in one smooth movement. as sansa follows suit, she feels her bones crackling, her muscles stiff and angry.

they stop just behind the door. margaery presses the goblet into sansa’s hand, and suddenly there is barely enough space to breathe between them.

“i’m sorry.” sansa says, lump once again in her throat. “i shouldn’t have let loras go. it was heartless of me. his safety will be in my prayers.”

“it was what he wanted. and what i wanted, if all i want is for him to be happy. he hasn’t been happy. not since renly…” margaery seems to shake herself of the memory. “thank you, my queen.” it shouldn’t make sansa’s stomach lurch like it does.

“just sansa.” her voice is barely even a murmur

margaery smiles. “good night, sansa.”

 

then, all that is before sansa is heavy, cold oak. she presses her forehead into it and sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck i'm slow huh


	6. six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh so it's been a while and i thought this was gonna be 6 chapters but this one got really long so here have this

the war ends.

winterfell’s holes are all half-filled in; there are roofs enough to go over everyone’s heads. food is… scarce, yes, but the people are fed. the grain stores will hold until the first harvest of the spring.

sansa wakes up not shivering for the first time in years but not warm either, wakes to a sky not filled with clouds but shimmering with sunlight. and it is not relief she feels. she doesn’t bask in the light, doesn’t smile into the spring, she does not throw herself together and rush out to celebrate with her people.

she shrinks away from it and hides. she shudders with the realisation that she does not want this, that she would rather be trapped in a world of endless work and endless struggle. she would rather be in control of her lack of control than to watch it all slip away again. she would rather hold margaery forcibly at arm’s length than risk her any closer or any further away. but the north deserves spring. the guilt of that gnaws at her. she is only human. 

 

jon’s last letter to her lies yellowing on her desk; the ink is smudged, faded. She’s read it over too many times to count.

 

_ they’re almost here now. we go to battle tomorrow. it could last minute, hours, weeks. it could last years. i am inclined to believe it will be a short one, sister. my gut tells me so; ghost is anxious for this to be over. i had a wolf dream last night, that i was running through winterfell. it smelled of home, of you, of arya and rickon. it smelled how father and catelyn used to. fire and ice together. i don’t know how i remembered smells so closely, but i knew that they were true. nymeria was there, too. we were in the crypts. have the sculptors begun work on the others yet? i know it must be hard for you, but the sooner the better. no one will remember your mother’s face, nor robb’s, nor bran’s. even i… his voice was in my dream last night. he told me not to be afraid of the battle that’s coming.  _

_ i must thank you for not allowing arya to come here. fierce as i am sure she has become, this is my battle, daenerys’ battle. loras’, now, too. he’s a fearsome soldier. sometimes i believe he goes into battle with the intent of dying heroically. something to do with renly, i assume. we spoke at length about that. many of the brothers… it matters not. i have lost, too. her name was ygritte. she had a lot of you in her - a lot of arya, too. perhaps one day i might tell you her tale, and you might tell me of margaery. if loras’ accounts of the pair of you are true - and he has told me that she baffles him, and so do you. but he also says he’s never known margaery to be as happy, nor as good as she is with you. if i know anything about you, sansa, and i hope to the gods that i do, i know that you know what you want. i know that you know what you need. and i know those will not be the same thing. allow me to say one thing, however. what you need will never be enough. you are allowed to be happy, little sister. you have been through enough. you must be happy if you are to be a good queen. father, mother, robb, bran… they would have wanted that for you, no matter how it came about. she will be good for the north, sansa. please, do not punish yourself any longer. _

_ i will write a letter for arya and rickon, too. they deserve my words, my thoughts, me - if anything happens. that burden is not yours. i love you, sansa. _

 

she’s picked the inky, oily black seal of the watch off by now. his words were true, just, loving. but sansa has no clue how to face the truth.

 

a handmaiden brings her tea and breakfast, which she eats without taste. no one requests an audience with her. they know that she will come forth when she is ready. there are no words that she can find, however. sansa sighs and lets her face fall into her hands. still in her nightgown, she summons the handmaiden back to her room.

“bring me lady margaery, if she is awake.”

“at once, your grace.” the girl curtsies. she is perhaps thirteen, fourteen at a stretch. the age sansa was when all this mess began. it still is not over, not even over a decade later.  _ politics never rests _ . it’s petyr’s head in her voice. her stomach boils at the thought of him, and for a moment she thinks she might be sick. sansa has known she will be exhausted for the rest of her life for a long, long time now. knowing has not made the fact any easier to face, at the end of the day. 

 

the door opens.

 

“margaery.” she greets over her shoulder. she does not turn back.

“congratulations, your grace. the summer has been well won.”

it was not sansa's victory. “margaery,” her voice repeats, free from command, free from anything but understanding, vulnerability, fear - she is still young. she is still scared. “please, forget all that ridiculousness for now.” sansa rises from her seat and strides over to the woman. she’s been taller than margaery since they met, at the height of summer, in the putrid, steaming city that sought to kill them both, to stab them both in the back and sides and laugh as they bled out.

here they stand. gaunt, perhaps. scarred. but their hearts still beat in their chests. their blood runs hot. margaery smiles in a strange, sad way. her hand brushes against sansa’s hair; the queen in the north turns into the touch and pretends not to feel margaery’s hand trembling. her eyes burn with tears so she closes them. she clasps the touch with her own hand, squeezes gently.

“your brother has been in my prayers since the day he left. i... i hope you will be reunited with him soon.”

“i am sure that i will.” margaery’s voice is barely above a whisper. “jon snow is a hero to all of westeros. i cannot wait for the chance to thank him myself.” sansa’s eyes flutter open. she swallows and drops both of their hands from her cheek.

“i need your help. i... i am not so charismatic as you are, and i had not planned with the thought that the war would end so soon. i know not what to say to my people, but the sooner i can address them, the sooner i - we, if you wish to come - might ride north.”

margaery smiles in true then, and indicates towards sansa’s desk. sansa strides towards it and takes her seat. when she turns over her shoulder, margaery is lounging atop her bed. sansa’s eyes roll. still, she copies margaery’s suggestions word for word.   
  


winterfell is overjoyed at the promise of warmth and of plenty; of a true restoration, one that is not mere survival in the midst of chaos. from somewhere, sansa manages to find a smile - a true smile. the north is prospering, and with every shout of love and of thanks, her heart swells larger.

 

but the need for diplomacy looms ever closer; the threat of dragons and queens and unknown enemies is unavoidable now.

 

they set off for the wall as a party of twelve later that evening. sansa, arya, and rickon form an arrow at their head, arya and rickon heavily armed and armoured. sansa merely wears a custom leather breastplate, a white direwolf blazing bright across the front. brienne and margaery ride behind them - it is the first time sansa has ever seen the tyrell woman in trousers, and it makes her wonder why margaery ever insisted so strongly on dresses. howland reed,  sigorn of the newly minted house thenn, lyanna mormont, the lords of house manderly and house umber, and the ladies of house cerwyn and house glover ride behind them. arya bears a white flag, rickon the standard house stark. sansa’s heart swells with pride at the sight of them. 

the snow is melting, but the earth is not yet soft enough to turn to sludge under their horses hooves. ahead of them shaggydog and nymeria streak like gigantic arrows over the ground, barking excitedly.

night falls all too fast. sansa orders a halt at the top of the long lake. they did not have the space nor power to carry a table, but even so sansa sprawls a tapestry map across the floor of her tent and scowls at it, the wheels in her mind turning incessantly. she’s thought about this, about whether to cede her sovereignty, whether to stand her ground, or to kneel to daenerys (or to jon, for that matter. she’s heard the rumours of his birth. she’s heard howland reed’s account. she has no reason not to believe it - all of it.).

if there is one thing she has learned from the tumultuousness of her life, it’s that the north needs a leader who knows it well. her people deserve a regent who can be present, who truly hs their interests at heart - from the north, in the north, for the north.

no, sansa will not kneel. not even for her brother who is not really her brother. she wonders how arya would feel about that. she wonders how arya _will_ feel when she finds out the truth.

 

there’s still a chill to the wind, and it bites at her face as the tent flaps open. margaery stands in the entrance, mouth half open. then she spots sansa’s siblings, also caught deep in thought, and brienne huddled in the corner. she freezes. arya seems to read the situation even before sansa can, because she’s on her feet and bowing at both sansa and margaery in the blink of an eye.

“good evening, lady margaery. i think i ought to get some sleep, sister. i will see you in the morning.”

“good-night, arya.” and with that she slips catlike out of the opening and into the night. there’s barely a sound. sansa turns to her advisors. “i think we might be better off discussing the likelihood of a karstark revolt in the morning, don’t you?” brienne rises, ever dutiful. rickon simply looks confused for a moment, then he nods.

“aye, sansa.” he looks to margaery, then back to her - now with something of a twinkle in his eye. sansa wants to scowl, but hardly wishes to give herself away. “sleep well, sister. good night, my lady.”

“my queen.” brienne has risen clankily to her feet and now leans towards her, voice hushed. “shall i stand guard for you?” brienne’s distrust fills sansa with a mixture of pride, amusement, and discontent. she shakes her head.

“no, thank you brienne. i would rather you were rested properly. we... may need you tomorrow.”

her armor echoes into the tent long after she leaves.

 

sansa waits, but margaery says nothing and does nothing. “want some wine?”

margaery jolts - the first time sansa’s ever seen her startled, she thinks - then smiles. “i would love some.”

sansa is already pouring it. “i should have asked you to join us. you’re just as important as i am. highgarden…” she breathes in, her entire body moving upwards with the air. “it matters what you choose to do.” sansa doesn’t have the strength to ask. not outright, at least.

she can almost hear the smirk that sits on margaery’s lips, just as she can almost feel every footstep as margaery closes the space between them. “i am not my brother - i do not speak for willas, nor for highgarden. not even for loras.” she takes her goblet, sips from it. sansa watches it move the whole time. watches margaery’s lips curl into a smile. “i can speak only for what i want, and for what i will do to assure peace.”

“peace?” sansa presses, heart halting in her chest.

“a peace that is agreeable for all, yes. we cannot afford a drawn out war.”

“so you will serve the realm.”

“no.”

sansa stares, jaw hanging half open. “but-”

“gods, sansa, you are a fool.”

“give me a straight answer. please, margaery - for once in your _bloody_ life, just answer me. show yourself. i can’t understand you.”

“you can’t,” margaery asks, “or you don’t want to?”

sansa groans aloud in anger. “margaery.”

 

silence. sansa sighs, sets her goblet down and steels herself. then she leans down and kisses margaery. it’s short, fueled by frustration, longing, desperation. resentment lingers on the back of sansa’s tongue, but most of all, she wants. wants margaery, wants comfort, wants safety; she longs for peace, for her family. she wants it all to be over, wants to open her eyes to find herself tangled up in her bed - her parents’ old bed, hers now and forever - with the smell of roses beside her and margaery’s legs tangled in her own.

 

she steps back and watches margaery.

 

“we’re beyond the time where what i did was contingent on my family. we’re beyond the time where peace is only won in wars. domination is over. we’re past the point where i couldn’t be a part of something bigger, better. there’s no use in me not doing what i want, where i want.” she’s highgarden’s treasure. they will not want to see her leave.

sansa’s breath and voice both shake. “and what… do you want?”

“is that not obvious?”

“i need to hear it. i need a promise that will not end in the same way your last oath to me did. i am still a queen, margaery. i am not a fool, not some little girl to be bandied about.”

“then i want you. i want you, sansa, in whatever capacity you will take me. i want your people, your family, to be mine, and i want nothing else. it took me too long to realise.”

sansa smiles. it isn’t forgiveness. nor will she ever forget, much as she wishes she could. but it’s enough. for now, for everything that’s around them, it’s enough.

“so what now?”

margaery kisses her, then, arms snaking up and around her neck, goblet abandoned beside sansa’s. her lips are sweet - like golden wine and honey, like what sansa would say summer tasted like if it weren’t for lemon cakes, if it weren’t for the fact that her taste for summer had been spoiled by lions and demons. she shivers.

 

margaery is springtime - she tastes of spring, sansa decides, and the hope that blooms in her gut and coils up into her chest like some great vine towards the sunlight stretches higher in agreement. sansa grasps at her hips and tugs their bodies together, until they’re so close they could be one creature, made up of flesh and blood and love and history - it’s been too long since she’s touched like this, been held like this.

 

years.

 

it was only ever margaery.

 

without warning, margaery pulls back. sansa gasps in a breath of chilled air, her eyes stutter open. the tyrell girl is practically grinning.

“you should take your own advice, my queen.” she drawls, stepping backwards. “get some sleep. we have a big day ahead of us.” stunned, sansa can only watch as margaery backs towards the entrance of her tent.

“wait,” she calls out as the woman is halfway outside. “please, just stay with me.” the nervousness is returning to her bones, now. the fear of what awaits them. “just sleep with me. please, margaery.” it is a strange feeling, to be a beggar and a queen. “i won’t rest otherwise.” if there is one thing she does not fear, it is waking up with margaery curled around her. they have lived through too much for sansa to worry over what her subjects will think, what gossip they might whisper. she’s proven herself a thousand times over. she is their queen. she knows they will not relinquish that easily.

it’s almost too warm with the both of them under her blanket. sansa’s nerves still stand on edge, but the feel of margaery pressed against her spine soothes her breathing until the world goes blank.


	7. final.

they hear daenerys’ army before they see it; they see the dragons before they see an army. two of them; that’s the first indication that something is wrong.

the wolves rush ahead, towards the great speck of white that rises from the green-grey sludge of grass and melting ice. “ghost.” sansa’s not sure who says it, if it’s her, or arya, or rickon. perhaps it’s all three. it’s a gasp; shock, then anticipation, then horror.

when the wolves stop in their tracks to turn their heads to the sky and howl, the sound long, drawn out, and mourning, sansa feels a knife twist in her gut. her entire body aches, from her bones to her skin; her heart feels as though it’s tearing. not into two halves, but into thousands of tiny, irretrievable and irreparable pieces. something like a whine sounds in her throat. she cannot bring herself to face arya, but she can see the slight figure of her, rigid as an arrow, caught between disbelief and rage. a hand grasps her own. she expects it to be rickon, but the skin is too soft, too smooth. _margaery_. she sighs, squeezes tight as a tourniquet, then lets go and turns to her brother. her horse sidles carefully over.

 

“you don't have to be here for this - and if you are, you don’t need to speak. i’m sorry, rickon. i loved him as i know you did. and i let him go off to his foolish, heroic end. gods, i am so, so sorry.”

her brother’s head shakes, but no words come from him. his hand comes up to pinch at the top of his nose. he wipes away tears. sansa nods. “okay. okay.” she murmurs. then she turns towards her deepest fear. an angry arya.

“arya, i-”

“you didn’t let me go to him. you stopped me - i - i could have saved him. i could have seen him. you never loved him like i did, you never treated him like your brother, you-” she steams, one hand hovering at her hip. “you _bitch!_ ”

sansa closes her eyes. arya is right, about all of it. she waits for whatever is next: a slap, perhaps. tears. death, maybe. arya’s a killer - arya has killed for less. maybe, just maybe, sansa deserves it. for a fleeting moment, she wants it.

 

then a pair of arms, wiry and relentless, wrap around her. sansa slumps and forgets herself for a moment, then her own arms move to circle arya’s back. she can feel tears on the tiny exposed part of her shoulder, even as she’s crying into her sister’s hair.

 

“is he really gone?” arya whispers. sansa squeezes her tighter.

“he’s never going to be gone. not completely.”

“sansa... i know it’s technically not allowed, but,” she feels arya suck in a shaky breath, “can we bury him in the crypts? beside robb? he deserves that. he’d have loved that, i think. to be father’s son, even in death.”

sansa smiles, though it is painful to do so. “of course. of course, arya. i wouldn’t dream of doing it any other way.”

their approach grows ever more somber after that. the dragons make a noise sansa doesn’t know how to describe - their version of a howl, or perhaps a wail. _mourning_ , she wonders to herself, _or a threat? a reminder that their mother is their queen, and they are still capable of razing castles and cities and people to the ground._

queen daenerys’ standards have started to come into view when sansa hears someone calling her name. she turns her body to find margaery holding out her crown. _of course_ , she thinks to herself. _how could she have forgotten?_ the look of mistrust brienne so usually wears around the woman has disappeared, replaced by confusion.

sansa bows her head and waits for the heavy circlet to drop onto her brow. “remember, your grace, the north is yours. that is not something that will change quickly.” margaery smiles. “it suits you.” she whispers. “stand your ground.”

  


daenerys is beautiful. that’s the first judgment sansa makes from afar, her strange and striking white-silver hair and her eyes the colour violet only add to the knot of fear and awe that is building in her gut. the targaryen army seem to move as part of her, rather than as controlled by her; the dragons, too, live and breathe in time with the queen.

 

“do you think that’s all that’s left of her army?” rickon asks. there’s some divide in the marching ranks of men: a small cluster of black brothers near the front, surrounded by a larger group of men and women dressed haphazardly in furs that don’t match. _wildlings_. sansa’s lips mouth the word in some amount of surprise - so many of them survived and came south - but her focus does not remain with them for long. the middle section of men is mixed; some wear green, from highgarden, others the black of the north, others still red, and many more colours in between. their allegiances are distinguished not by the colours they wear, but by whether or not they seem to move as part of the same unit, the same creature that makes up the dothraki flank and the queen herself.

“and some of ours. but let us not worry about that yet, brother. there are more pressing matters to be concerned with.”

rickon looks down and nods. sansa can see him swallow.

 

the two groups reach each other quite suddenly. sansa guides her horse forwards, until she’s close enough to be heard speaking. then she dismounts and walks closer. rickon and arya follow suit. her neck already pinches uncomfortably from the weight of the crown.

she watches daenerys dismount, a crown of her own nestled atop braided hair.

“your highness,” sansa greets, “it is an honour. may i present to you my sister, lady arya, and brother, lord rickon, of house stark.” they both bow their heads in turn.

“it is a pleasure.” daenerys greets. neither queen bothers to introduce themselves. sansa’s glad for it. her gaze drifts sideways, towards the figure in armour black as night, who pulls off his helmet. His hair falls out first, as long and pretty as it has ever been. sansa gasps.

“ _loras_.” guilt floods through her as she realises she’d forgotten the other tyrell. and now he’s… “lord commander tyrell?” she blinks, confused for a moment. he nods to her. it’s reassuring, on one level. there’s no one jon would have preferred to take up the title. there’s no one better suited to it - perhaps even jon himself was not. sansa turns towards the cart pulled behind loras’ steed. her heart stutters, she sucks in air and turns her face skywards, tears stinging at her eyes.

 

“our brother is…” it’s not quite a question.

daenerys’ face crumples into sympathy. “jon snow was a good man. a noble man, a great leader and a great warrior. he was a hero, and he died a hero’s death. we would have lost the war many moons ago if not for him, and we would have lost not long ago if not for his sacrifice.”

sansa nods, reaches out for her siblings’ hands. they cling to her. tears stream freely down her face. “if it please you, queen daenerys, lord commander tyrell… we would like to bury him with his family, in winterfell. he will have a hero’s funeral. it would be an honour for you - all of you - to attend, and to celebrate your victory with us. we can discuss the future of our houses and kingdoms there.”

 

* * *

 

she lays a shroud over her last remaining older brother’s body, shaking with the relief that she will not have to burn away the beauty of his face. she’s seen the similarities in daenerys’ face. she knows the truth.

but it does not matter who his father was. jon was her brother, plain and simple. it will not serve anyone to dig up skeletons long since buried, not now that there are fresh ones to bury. something about this seems final, seems fated. she’s felt this way for a while, now. perhaps she always knew this would be how it ended. in the back of her mind, sansa knows jon has only been allowed this burial because acknowledging his true birth - acknowledging he was rhaegar’s son - would be a problem for daenerys.

 _i could claim the iron throne, if i wanted._ sansa thinks to herself with bitter amusement. _i could be queen. i wouldn’t even need to marry a prince, this time._

her gut twists, and for a moment she thinks she might be sick. guilt, self-hatred, self-disgust… she thought she’d left those behind. but they haunt her still. how could she even think about that?

it probably has something to do with the dragon queen hovering in the corner; the threat that hangs over her head, sansa’s desires, her people’s desires, the fractured nation, the decimation of house lannister… it’s all so much and nothing at all. nothing certain and nothing sacred.

but she knows one thing, at least. the north has a queen, finally. sansa has no plans to let it go. torrhen stark was a king who knelt to dragons, but that was eons ago. his army was nothing in the face of a conqueror. daenerys is no aegon, either.

 

torrhen was a king. sansa is a queen.

  
she knows another thing, too.

 

wiping tears from her cheeks, she turns away from the alcove that will one day house a statue of her brother. she retreats, back towards the short line of people in the crypt. tyrion reaches out to squeeze her hand as she passes; sansa returns the comfort with a watery smile. then he tugs her down towards him.

“you have grown ever stronger, queen in the north. i did not think it possible, and yet… you never lost the thing that was so special about you.” one finger brushes against her chest, just below her collarbone. “you never turned sour. you never let bitterness overtake your soul.” she can read between the lines he’s drawing: she never became cersei. but...

“believe me, lord tyrion,” she murmurs back. “there were times you would not have said the same thing.”

“ah, sansa…” the lord of casterly rock smiles up at her; a wise old lion, happy, tired, worn. “the spider always insisted that brotherhood and their lady were a problem that could not have been left unsolved. is it better that you bear the burden? perhaps not… but would you have preferred to merely watch? or to have heard from afar?”

sansa hates him for being right. she sighs, still filled with tension. “thank you for your words. i know there are other matters that must be weighing heavy on your mind.”

tyrion smiles, his eyes turn towards where her family stands. rickon, stiff, broken, and openly crying. arya, returning from saying her own goodbyes, red-eyed and furious. her family… and behind them, margaery, who looks heartbroken not for any personal reason but rather because pain is so thick in the air. and like fate, she meets tyrion’s eyes, then sansa’s, with a tiny nod, and something that might have been a smile. “let yourself be happy, sansa. the war is over. jon was a good man. a hero. he lived a good man’s life, died a good man’s death. would that it had been me the king of those monsters went for. but they knew where the danger was.”

sansa dips lower, closer to his ear. “the war will not be over until i have spoken with your queen, my lord.” she replies, “and i will not speak with her until i have mourned.” she presses a kiss to tyrion’s cheek as she rises. “i know you saw my brother as a brother of your own, lord tyrion. he would have said the same of you, i am sure.”

tyrion bows his head as sansa drifts back to her place beside arya. her hand snakes backwards and is met almost immediately by margaery’s. sansa’s chest loosens immediately. rickon steps towards the body, and margaery’s grip squeezes for just a moment.

 

it will be fine.

 

for now, sansa sinks into the black blanket of icy grief that has ringed her heart for so many years. the fingers between hers cannot fight it off, nor can the words of her once-husband. not even the press of her siblings shoulder against hers will do it, for it is them she grieves for, much more than herself. she, at least, had her time to grieve father and robb, for rickon and bran, for arya. for her mother, so sweet, so loving, so dedicated. catelyn… the woman sansa had aspired to be, before she met cersei, after she learned the monster within the lion… the one person in the world she’d longed to know she spent years of her life thinking they were dead. arya and rickon were not afforded the luxury of time, of coming to terms with loss. they were and still are children of the wild, of anger, of the north. sansa at least learned to temper that. learned the truth of mortality. heard from afar but still close they fates of her family, one by one, until she’d been the only one who remained. the sickness of seeing

jon, however… he had always seemed immortal to her. constant, even when she had been so horrid to him, wrapped up in her own little world, her ideas of perfection. she’d written him letters, back in king’s landing. of course, she’d never sent them. burned them before she fled. she’d written to him when she was petyr’s prisoner, too. she still has those letters.

perhaps she’s never truly grieved. she has endured, yes. she’s lived for years with the bones of her family rattling in her sleep, their ghosts whispering at her back; turn around and know they are lost, turn around and have a knife driven through her back by some enemy. she’s lost herself in among it all, been born again from fear and plotting and venom, forged stronger than steel, paler than bone, hotter than blood. mourning tears it all away. she feels thirteen again, leaving her mother behind for king’s landing.

daenerys is staring at her. she can feel it. she turns to meet the dragon queen’s gaze.

 

that old desire is back, to be powerful, to be porcelain, to be perfect. but it is not for herself this time. it is for her people, for all they have lost. the north survives and remembers, winter and summer alike. sun shall not melt her crown. nor shall dragonfire.

 

* * *

 

her guards cease to question whether sansa would wish to see lady margaery when she turns up outside sansa’s bedroom or while sansa is meeting with her advisors. even brienne begins to trust the woman. margaery has always had that affect, the ability to charm the most stubborn of people, to enchant those determined to dislike her.

sansa grows used to retiring to her chambers and waiting for margaery, used to spending the day half a room away from the woman and feeling as though oceans separate them, as though the entire length of westeros lies between her own lips and that awful painful, teasing smirk that rests so naturally on her lover’s lips.

the careful first touch becomes second nature to her, the gentleness of slender fingers rubbing at the knots in her shoulders. it should take sansa by surprise, the first night that it happens, hunched in frustration over numbers on a waxy page, grain stores and seasonal patterns, candlelight and the fading sunset making them blur together in her mind. the door opens and closes without her notice; fingers slide around her neck. she should panic, should shout for her guards. but there’s some instinct in her, telling her not to panic. something about the energy in the room assures her she’s perfectly safe.

 

as with everything about margaery, sansa thinks she would recognise her touch if she were blind and senseless, beyond the veil of death even.

 

she closes her eyes, sighs, and leans back in her seat as margaery’s fingers dig deep into the soreness and tension in her flesh, force out the stress and replace it with relief and comfort. the movement begins to slow when the sun is dipping below the horizon, the sky the colour of the blood-dark oranges from dorne. margaery stops, and bends down to place a feather-light kiss on sansa’s temple.

sansa lets out a quiet whine, refusing to open her eyes and face reality.

“sansa, love, even i get tired eventually.” the comment drifts over from her bed, lilting with laughter and sweetness.

“usually it’s a little more _climatic_.” sansa grumbles, finally rising from her chair and positively slouching towards the woman who is almost disturbingly comfortable atop the bed that once belonged to ned and cat.

margaery only laughs harder at that, belly curving up off the soft feather mattress until she’s sitting up straight and her arms circle around sansa’s hips. she hums for a long moment while sansa merely pouts, waiting for whatever _clever_ response she knows margaery has cooked up.

finally, the witticism forms. “you think that is exh-” sansa doesn’t let her finish her jest, sliding downwards and catching the words between her lips, fingers sliding into the furs on either side of margaery’s thighs. those same hands that had worked the stress from her shoulders now wind themselves into her hair and guide her to press margaery’s form down into the featherbed, their bodies sliding into one another like waves into the shore. sansa’s body envelops margaery’s tiny frame, and yet she can feel the tyrell girl consuming her; a twig in a roaring forest fire, a child caught out at sea, out of her depth.

 

she licks almost angrily into margaery’s mouth; margaery moans, her hands abandon sansa’s hair and push open her robe, cradle her hips. sansa can feel herself trembling. she pulls backwards and finds her bottom lip trapped between margaery’s teeth. her breath catches, for a moment she thinks she may choke, then margaery lets go and smirks up at her.

 

“what, you won’t even entertain me with some small talk before rushing into things?”

sansa falls to her side and drags a finger down margaery’s arm, then twines their fingers together. “what is there to talk about? you’ve heard it all. you haven’t been more than a few yards away all day. but now you’re here, and you’re mine. and i don’t belong to them, not for now.”

margaery rolls over until she’s half-atop sansa, half on the furs, elbow propping her head up above sansa’s. “i’m always yours, sansa. completely and entirely yours, to do with as you please.”

it’s not long before she’s doing exactly that, with margaery’s tongue against her neck and the marks of her teeth indented in her shoulder, coming undone around her fingers with a shudder and a cry.

she forgets her fears, forgets the threat of dragons and armies.

 

but some things can only be avoided for so long.

 

* * *

 

it is not until many days later that they meet in any official capacity. winterfell is still largely broken, still filled with holes. too many ears listen in. to the credit of her people, however, none have questioned the lingering presence of margaery tyrell, nor the fact that she seems to hang at the doorway of every room sansa enters.

a breeze flutters as daenerys appears at the edge of the clearing, among the trees of the godswood. the wind blows the red of her hair about her face; sansa rises from the edge of the hot springs and breathes in the smell of roses that has begun to cling to her own hair as well as margaery’s. “welcome, queen daenerys. i hope you will forgive my decision to meet out in the clear. the warmth of spring deserves to be celebrated.”

daenerys smiles as though she knows a secret. “and none will spy on us here. i appreciate your discretion, your grace. although i must say,” she drifts towards the water, shooting a strange glance towards the weirwood tree that faces them, “i do feel as though i am intruding on something i will never understand. it is powerful. this forest… it does not belong to us.”

“my mother lived in winterfell for more of her life than she did not. winter did not naturally befit her, but she learned how to love it. eventually it learned to love her, too. but the old gods were always foreign to her, just as the new gods are foreign to me.” sansa pauses. “forgive me, daenerys, but i have become a woman of the mind that very little of this world truly does belong to _us_.”

 

daenerys stares at her. sansa ignores the feeling, and looks down at the perfectly still surface of the spring; watches her own still-gaunt face, her still-dark eyes. “some would have had me believe you were foolish and power hungry. tyrion was the only one who ever called you wise, or brave. i did wonder how so many people supposed a fool could have lived the life you have, defeated all her enemies, outlived so many evils. he told me his sister and petyr baelish were the worst people in all of westeros, and yet neither one defeated you. i spent many years being underestimated, your highness. i can see why you stand here now with a kingdom behind you. i see why they love you. you are not selfish, and yet you know what you want.”

 

sansa looks to her, then, eyes blazing with the hint of a challenge. “aye, i do. do you?”

“i believe we want for the same thing. in different ways, and for different reasons. but we are two sides of a similar coin.”

sansa does not respond to that. “i hear my sister has developed something of an interest in your party.” arya herself told sansa she planned on investigating the southron army; fears of her old life, of when she was no one, she claimed. sansa did not attempt to understand.

the silver-haired queen smirks. “she says the faceless men may be hunting me. this i know: they tried to assassinate me in braavos with some creature. jorah mormont killed it for me. but if they are to come to westeros and try again...”

“you wish to take aryasouth with you.” sansa’s voice is blunt; it takes effort to keep the pain out of it.

daenerys nods.

 

“she told you what she was? before m-” sansa collects herself. “before lady tyrell found her?”

“do you think it ill-advised, your grace?” or are you merely selfish enough to risk your kingdom for nothing more than having your sister close? she can hear the real question behind daenerys’ words. sansa had hoped these sorts of trades were finished with. family or crown; blood or politics. she’d vowed never to force a stark other than herself from winterfell again. yet here she stands.

“your enemy’s enemy is not your friend.” sansa begins, tension in her shoulders and her words, “however, arya is as fierce and as loyal a friend as you may find yourself having. especially if she has nymeria with her. they are a formidable pair.” _and nymeria may just be all that keeps her from falling back to who she was._ “she’s a little too old to be a ward, though, don’t you think? and few would believe she wished to join the court.”

“i had hoped, actually, to name her to my queensguard.”

 

sansa cannot hide her surprise.

 

amusement is written all over daenerys’ face. “have you not seen her duelling your brienne in the yards? she is small, but they did train her well in braavos.”

sansa’s gaze drops back to the water. “that was a difficult time for my sister. i prefer not to ask her to relive it.”

“of course.”

 

for a moment, they’re just part of the forest. then,

 

“you buried jon in your crypts.”

“you didn’t protest.”

daenerys steps closer to her, shoulders slightly squared. “and you will not answer me clearly. you don’t trust me, and yet you buried your last bargaining chip. i do not understand you, sansa stark.”

“jon wasn’t only my family, nor yours. he was my cousin, your nephew… but he was arya and rickon’s brother. he was a son to my father. a brother to robb - they were the best of friends.” but that’s not the true reason, no matter how much sansa might tell herself it is, wishing she weren’t so _calculating_. “i am a queen in the north. i will fight for that, because my people need me, and deserve a leader who knows them. but i am tired of scheming and war, your highness. i have been to the south. it does not agree with me. we have had enough wars of succession. your family has had enough problems with fighting amongst yourselves. what use would it be for anyone to acknowledge who his father was? i believe jon would have wanted the truth to be laid to rest with him.”

daenerys nods. “tyrion was right about you.” she holds out a hand. “i will not fight you for anything further north than the trident. riverrun is in your family just as much as winterfell. my party and i will be leaving winterfell before sunset. you needn’t worry about us, queen sansa. i have a kingdom to rebuild, and you have one that needs you just as much.” then she smiles a little. “i will take care of your sister, sansa. that i swear to you. i failed to protect your brother. it will not happen again. and i will be sure to tell willas tyrell that his sister is in good hands, too.”

sansa takes her hand and shakes it - a foreign feeling still - and tries to ignore the slight burn in her cheeks. “thank you, daenerys. good luck with the dornish - they can be a nasty lot, but they can also be some of the most genuine.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

from the cold of the newly repaired ramparts, sansa watches the tattered southron army disappear into the horizon. rickon stands at her right shoulder, margaery at her left. her gut twists around the part of it that feels empty; shaggydog lets out a sound that’s halfway between a howl and a whine, pained already by the loss of his last sister. ghost, they think, returned beyond the wall. free in the north.

sansa hopes he carries with him at least some of jon’s soul, unburdened by his birth and his lives and his deaths at long last.

her crown sits in her bedroom, atop a pillow on her desk, forgotten for a while at least. but she can still feel its weight; she doubts she will ever forget it, ever be truly free of it. rickon places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes.

“arya will come back to us. she always finds a way.”

“gods, little brother. you aren’t meant to be the wise one.” sansa smiles away her tears and embraces his still-growing body. his arms feel like rocks at her back, and it is almost perfect, if it weren’t for their tragedies. he moves back, and she lifts a hand to cup his cheek and stroke at a scar with her thumb. “i do love you, rickon.”

“i know.” he laughs, and swoops forwards to place a kiss on margaery’s cheek, before loping towards the pulley-box that will return him to the ground. his wolf follows. “and i you, sweet sister.”

he disappears into the stone below them. sansa returns to her silence, staring out at the vast nothing that belongs to her. it’s hard to process; she wonders if robb ever had a chance to simply stare out at his lands and love them, to be in awe of their sheer size, of the responsibility on his shoulders but also of the love he held for the north.

 

a forehead presses against her shoulder blades. arms wrap tightly around her stomach. “as do i, my queen.”

sansa knows this; she has known it since the moment she saw her face like a ghost. it is a terrifying thing, and beautiful, too.

“all these lands… all the strongholds and keeps, from the wall to the neck. everything. i am queen of it, finally, without a worry.” she knows she wouldn’t give it away, not for rickon, not for arya… but margaery is almost enough. there’s guilt in that, but there’s also a certainty. “it’s all yours, as it is mine. there is no one… no one else i would share it with. i used to wonder, how robb could have risked a kingdom for a woman. for love. but i was a fool, then. i didn’t understand what it was to love. and, i suppose, i simply wasn’t thinking about you.”

even through her furs, she can feel margaery smile.

 

that’s enough for sansa; and, she realises, it always has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we reach the end..... thanks for comin along team BIG love leave ur thoughts and ur love below hmu on tumblr feel free to ask for my ko-fi or w/e if u liked the story x0x

**Author's Note:**

> allllrighty here's this and i hope y'all enjoy


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